Free Falling
by Elzi Welzi
Summary: Ever wondered how the brightest cope with despair? Yeah, so have I, now then, shall we watch their suffering?


**[Warning] Spoilers, gory scenes and cursing. I'm also putting a trigger-warning for good measure.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Dangan Ronpa or its characters**

 **[A/N] These are all just little one-shots that may or may not be connected depending on what character is depicted in each one. Just wanted to write something a tad abstract really. The killing school life and trip don't happen in this universe, but The Tragedy still did.**

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Naegi Makoto falls with two hands ─ one manicured and soft, and the other calloused from the battlefield ─ pulling him down into the abyss and gloved hands still grasping at his hoodie, trying to pull him back.

It's a long and scary drop, and it's painful oh so very painful. He hates what it forces him to do and often he breaks down, and the only way either of his perpetrators can get him to do anything is by offering that minuscule flame of hope that they're both disgusted by. Makoto doesn't care though, he holds onto whatever hope he can get down in the dregs of despair, and often he'll laugh at how pathetic he's come. Even here, even when he's already swathed in the heavy cloying murkiness he still clings to hope, even the most meager little spark of it. They're never enough to make him happy, yet he still consumed anything he got the way a man dying of thirst consumes water, and in the end contemplates how stupid the whole thing is.

It's endless.

Despair, wither, hope, and despair. Despair, wither, hope, and despair once more. Rinse and repeat over and over. He knows he's starting to annoy Junko with it, she can't stand it, can't stand hope existing even in it's most strangled state amongst her forces, but Mukuro is always there, explaining to Junko in that stoic, assertive way of hers that he's useful. Junko will gripe, and threaten to kill him once more, but in the end like a petulant child admit that he has his uses. Ironically his uses to Junko are the same as those he provided to the side of hope so long ago.

He used to appreciate them and count them as his best blessing, how he could help people without having to really worry about getting people to trust him. Now on the side of despair all he can do is wallow in the fact that they're really his only use, and actually make him less of an important as an individual. He has no solid identity, he has no real strength, there is nothing to be afraid of him within him, and also nothing of value. He is the pawn who plants the seed of despair in the remaining patches of hope, and watches budding pockets of bright future shrivel up and die in Junko's grip. He is the mole, the only one who can wear a smile so sincere and naive, and at the same time leak all the infiltration information Junko and Mukuro need to bring the shelter crashing down around their ears.

It's all right, he's gotten used to hating himself and the position he's managed to get himself in.

So he's surprised when he sees _her_ at one of his current projects. Her lavender hair is still long as ever, braided on one side to keep it out of her face, handing out rations to greedy children with a small, motherly smile on her face. Her hands are still gloved though they, and her clothes as well, have taken on a solid black color, the former dark purple nowhere to be seen. Makoto doesn't have to ask to know that the scars have gotten worse, he can't explain it, but he knows.

And she's beautiful, he can't believe he forgot to mention that she's beautiful. Then again it's not that unexpected, maturity has been good to her. Her figure filled out, her face slimmer and more mature, and eyes brilliant amethyst, alight with wisdom and shrewd understanding far beyond her years,even more so than the girl he left behind. Despite that, some things haven't change; she still walks like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, she doesn't raise her voice for anyone or anything. She still holds his gaze, and manages to see right through him.

That will probably never change.

Unfortunately everything else has.

Makoto thinks he might regret it.

Because twenty-two-year-old Kirigiri Kyoko is both the girl he knows and loves, and a complete stranger at the same time.

He waits for her to drag him aside, to point that gun he sees poking out of its holster at his head and threaten to shoot him if he doesn't leave immediately. Heck, she might not even wait for that, she might just aim and splatter his brains all over the sterile floors and walls. After all he's despair now, he's just another remnant squealing under Mukuro's boot, thus Junko's as well. Kirigiri's strong, her sense of duty even stronger; a handful of stolen kisses, unfulfilled promises whispered in empty classrooms, and a hundred secret smiles won't stop her from blowing his brains out.

Then again, when has he ever been able to predict Kyoko?

Instead she hugs him, burying her face in his shoulder, and murmuring his name over and over.

It's not as romantic as it seems. Her fingers don't tremble, instead they hook into the material of his hoodie, sure and unforgiving as they keep him in place. His name isn't said with a trembling, teary voice, it is ground out in anger; the accusation ringing loud and clear. She is draped over him like a lover would be, but she's as tensed and coiled as she would be if he was Junko herself, and there's not a doubt in his mind that if he made single movement to harm her here and now, she'd have him pinned down just a quickly as Mukuro could have.

It doesn't stop him from hugging her back.

They stand there for a moment, or maybe it's hours, just standing there, clutching at what the other has become and reminiscing about what could have been. Makoto has to revel in it, so familiar yet foreign at the same time. Kirigiri is as steady as she's always been, but this time Makoto is the taller of the two. It's not by much, but he chuckles at the irony of it all, because at this time it's obvious who's the bigger person between the two of them. Kyoko, so driven and strong, her arms like steel around his wiry, malnourished frame, whose voice resonates with power even in the midst of all her agony.

You'd be a fool to think it was him

He's okay with that, he's okay with admitting his own weakness right now. Because this moment is so warm, Kyoko is as well, and it's all so familiar. He wants to disappear into this moment, wants to forget the despair and stay here, with her.

 _With hope._

But alas this is but a mere moment.

"Come back to us, Makoto," Kyoko finally murmurs, arms releasing him. Unbidden to him, his knees give out, sending him crumpling to the floor. Kirigiri stands above his slumped frame like a goddess, and it's not haughty and demanding like Junko, instead subtle power and authority roll of her frame. Kirigiri doesn't need to condemn him with her words, the unsaid feelings between them are enough to form a suitable noose.

"If anyone can, it's you Makoto," she murmurs kindly. Gently, she presses as a hand to his shoulder, squeezing soothingly before finally walking away. Her final words hang in the air between them, ominous despite the comforting tone behind them, "After all, you _are_ the Ultimate Hope."

The words are supposed to be his lifeline to redemption.

Yet...

Three months later, he burns down the shelter anyway.

He scurries from the burning buildings like a rat, sticking to the shadows as the Future Foundation arrives. Sirens and shouts cloud the air, mingling with the ashes and heavy cloying smoke. Helicopters hover over head, their searchlights unmerciful as they try to find survivors and remnants of despair alike, and Makoto's heart is thumping in his chest, the adrenaline making it hard for him to breathe. Yet he sits in the abandoned alley, freedom mere steps away and watches the Future Foundation's forces scramble about like insects trying to save the injured, trying to hold the back the damage of what he's done. Yet there he remains, concealed cleverly enough but he's not really trying, if anyone were to walk into the alley and look closely they'd see him.

It doesn't surprise him that it's Kirigiri who does. The moment he sees her he scrambles to his feet, ready to make a run for it, but she doesn't pursue. Even as she raises her hand as if she wants to backhand him, even as her teeth sink into her bottom lip as if she's forcibly holding back obscenities, even as she gives him a glare that could probably force hell to freeze over. She doesn't approach him, doesn't bombard him with the strength he knows she has, or lash at him with her cold, logical tongue. Instead she gives him a godawful look of pity and disappointment that makes the pit of his stomach twist painfully.

And it probably hurts a lot more than anything else she could've done.

So he runs.

Even though he knows that look is imprinted, burned into the forefront of his mind.

He runs.

Mindlessly, aimlessly to get away from that stare.

Until his legs give out and his soles ache from all the blisters, until his lungs feel like they're about to cave in on themselves. Until his consciousness finally, _mercifully_ , fades into nothing but blackness.

And as the darkness washes over him. he wonders, if this is what true hope felt like.

When Mukuro finds him, she gives him silent praise, handling his sore body like she might a porcelain doll. She carries him back to headquarters on her back, the journey grueling, but he's spared the brunt of the pain. Junko is nothing but complaints when her arrives, he took to long, he was too sloppy, the Future Foundation already knows that it's him, but honestly Makoto can't find it in himself to care. Mukuro rolls her eyes at her sister and guides him back to his room and tells him to rest, he's deserved it. But even as he lays down in his familiar, too cold cot he can't help but feel something niggling in the back of his mind.

It's like Kirigiri woke up something inside him and now worming it's way back to the forefront of it's consciousness.

It feels like a monster.

He might just like it.

It finally surfaces about a month later in the dead of night. It strikes him in an instant, alone in his dark designated room laying undisturbed on his too cold, too stiff bed. His eyes snap open, the normally dead olive green suddenly deliriously bright. His lips twitch, Kirigiri's last words resonating in his mind like a mantra. He opens his mouth, to repeat them once more and...

He laughs.

Maniacal and unending, bouncing off the walls to his room as he tries to gather his bearings. The plan has already hatched in his mind. Crazy, delusional, suicidal, it's all of those things and it might just work. He might not be as lucky as Komeada, but he's got something else on his side, something much, much stronger. Not to mention, it's exactly what he needs to bring Junko down. He's just got to believe in his chances, no matter what goes wrong, it'll all pull through eventually.

Blindly his hands scrape over his face, trying to muffle the hysterical sounds coming from his mouth. It's only when the finer details fall into place does he let his body relax, allowing the remaining giggles to flit from his lips. Yes, now all that's left is to set it all in motion...

"It'll be fine... I'll be fine... Because... I'm the Ultimate Hope, right?"

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 **Raw, un-betaed, I'm not sure if I'm sorry or not...**

 **Oh and I the only other one-shots I have planned out for this collection are for Junko and Kirigiri, so if you want to see anyone in particular, feel free to mention in through PM or tumblr**

 **Psst, the cover photo was made by my lovely friend Photo Photo Photato, give her some love :)**


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